The Shadow of Fear
by The Purple Meanie
Summary: Jonathan Crane worked in Arkham Asylum for a year; now, he is a patient. But Crane knew he'd be caught by the Batman in the end. He recounts the long string of events that led to him donning the persona of the Scarecrow, and he gives his opinion on the Dark Knight, the Joker, the Gotham police force, and the sad state of Arkham Asylum. (Prequel to Harley's Arkham Journal.)
1. Part 1: Return to Arkham

**AN: For those of you who have read my other story: _Harley's Arkham Journal_ , this story acts as a prequel for Jonathan Crane; I didn't want to go very deeply into his backstory because Harley is the protagonist and the story is in her point of view, but I thought I might as well write a story for Scarecrow so you can get a better understanding of my version of the character, since it's somewhat of a different characterization for him. Besides, I just have a real itch to write a Scarecrow story, and I want to get this out of my system so I can focus more on _Harley's Arkham Journal._**

 **I was inspired to write this after reading _Batman Arkham: Scarecrow,_ a collection of important Scarecrow comics throughout his history, and feeling disappointed that most of his backstory boiled down to "Revenge of the Nerd." This is why my favorite origin stories for Crane are _Batman: Year One-Scarecrow_ and the New 52 origin, because they're not all about him becoming the Scarecrow because people bullied him for being a NEEEEERRRDD!**

 **So, this story is sort of a** **mish-mash of the origin stories I mentioned, while changing/ignoring the parts I didn't like. I'm done blathering now.**

 **...**

 _Part 1_

I can only faintly recall last night and most of this morning, I spent all of it suffering from my own toxin, and it was only when its effects finally wore off, at what I assume was around noon, that I realized I'd been in a cell of the Gotham police department the entire time, body sprawled out on the floor, still in my purposefully ragged jacket and feeling terribly exhausted. I knew full well before I started that there was no chance for me to escape the police and their "ally," but there was no excuse for me not foreseeing that he would rip my own mask from my face and give me a larger dose of my fear toxin than what I'd built up an immunity to.

Yes, I remember my fatal error now: The Batman had tracked me into the abandoned library, walking right into a cloud of the toxin that covered the whole area like a mist, and in under a minute he had collapsed onto the floor with a bloodcurdling scream. With him curled up on the ground, I approached him and aimed my gun at his face... but it was his reaction to the gun _itself_ that caught my attention and distracted me: Batman began desperately trying to crawl away from the gun and he was unmistakably sobbing; he kept crying out about _something,_ but his choked up, deep breaths made his words so unintelligible that I could not understand him, and his extremely uncharacteristic behavior came across as that of a very frightened child.

It's no secret that part of the Dark Knight's moral code involves never using a gun, instead substituting them for other devices, and there has been much speculation as to why he has this apparent hatred for these weapons. After seeing how my toxin affected him, I've come to the most logical and likely conclusion: that he actually _fears_ guns. The Batman has undoubtedly had to dodge hundreds of bullets by now, but the way I held my own gun reduced him to a shaking, tearful mess. I believe that when I poisoned the Bat, I must have unintentionally recreated a traumatic memory of some sort that led to his distaste for guns in the first place.

So, I stood there in the library, observing him, trying to decipher his behavior, and I ended up wasting a lot of precious time; eventually, I heard sirens in the distance and began to panic. Not wanting to stay in the building another second, I left my victim where he was and ran off. Out of harm's way, the Batman was able to retreat, possibly just to hold out and wait for the toxin to wear off on its own, but I wouldn't be surprised if he managed to create an antidote for it. I thought about developing an antidote for myself, but I chose not to, I suppose because I believed I had everything under control.

The next night, I faced the recovered Batman near my own home, and not much longer after that, things went downhill for me. He knocked me to the ground, tore the mask off my head, and sprayed a concentrated dose of fear toxin in my face using my own gas dispenser. The _things_ I saw while under the toxin's influence... I have no idea what my reaction looked like to the Batman or the police, but I can imagine whatever fear-inspiring presence I held all but vanished to them. The next thing I knew, I was in a jail cell. But no matter, in the end, I must remember that -for the most part- I _expected_ these events to turn out the way they did.

In fact, what's important is that I managed to accomplish everything I set out to do: I gave the administrator Arkham and all who supported his asylum my warning by going after Dr. Wolper, and I drew out the Dark Knight, even learning a surprising amount about his true nature under the costume; before my apprehension, I destroyed some of the papers containing my research, and I hid the rest where the authorities will never think to look. By the time I was arrested, I'd taken care of everything, though it wasn't as if I had much to leave behind in the first place except for my library of books, the only thing I will miss from my old life.

Someone finally noticed I had been brought back down to Earth, so to speak, and after some time I was escorted outside into another police car. I never spoke a single word during this, and I didn't let any sign of emotion escape my face. I knew exactly where I was going, yet, during the whole drive, some part of me _hoped_ that they would take me where I felt I deserved to be: Blackgate Prison. Am I not competent to stand trial? I haven't the slightest clue what dark parts of my psyche were revealed to all those witnessing while I was afflicted by my fear toxin that would convince them I am mentally unwell; but somehow, I had faith the law would recognize that I am _not_ criminally insane, that they wouldn't be so _stupid_ as to be confident in believing that my actions could be excused by insanity.

I had specific objectives to fulfill, but, looking back, it's clear to me that one of them was to prove to myself that the Batman and the law, who seem to have finally bent down their knees to him, really could send anyone they deemed "insane" to the asylum, despite what modern psychology would say otherwise... The new law in Gotham is predictable, _very_ predictable, not to mention hypocritical. It almost makes me sick; in all my years, I never would have imagined that Gotham would reach these levels of decadence. Does anyone else see this city is broken beyond repair? Well, I can think of at least one other person who might agree with me.

The sun was setting by the time the police car drove past the gates of Arkham Asylum. Inside, I had to hand off my jacket, and I received my eyeglasses in return. (I know the room where my costume was put in, I've been there several times before.) After I was registered, the guards led me down the asylum's halls, and I looked around to see the faces of the different people who recognized me: therapists, doctors, security, patients. My former peers either stared at me in shock or quickly turned away, but the patients ignored me for the most part. I see both groups differently now.

I did not see Jeremiah Arkham like I expected I to, but after what I did, he probably can't bear to face me again. While walking, I also attempted to see if that _clown_ was still here, but I wasn't able to catch a glimpse of him, although I'm sure he hasn't made a move to escape yet. And then, the moment I had been preparing for arrived: I entered my cell for the first time. Whether or not my sentence was justified, I am now a patient in Arkham Asylum. Overcome by exhaustion, it didn't take long for me to fall into a deep sleep.

All my years of study, of teaching, of psychoanalyzing mental patients has led to _this!..._ but, I let my frustration go a long time ago, and I have accepted that this is the path that I have chosen for myself: it was the doctors and psychiatrists in Arkham who chose to ignore my twenty-plus years of experience, despite hiring me precisely because of that, trying to force me to accept their outdated form of psychology the entire time I worked here, and I couldn't stand it any longer. I spent months trying to gather information that could be used against the establishment in the hopes of shutting it down... but along the way, I made a depressing realization.

I researched the entire history of the asylum, including all of the tragic events that occurred in its first few decades, and yet, none of it mattered in the end. I discovered that the nightmarish, _true_ story of Amadeus Arkham and his family was actually quite well known in Gotham in the form of horror stories that no one, no matter what background, took seriously. Even worse, when I contacted like-minded individuals in areas outside of Gotham, I learned that these otherwise very intelligent people were surprised when I told them what Arkham Asylum was _supposed_ to be, with some even believing Arkham was just another prison.

Four months of my life I will never get back. Four months until I finally saw the truth. The Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane has been in operation for ninety years, still standing even after all the horrific events that happened within its walls; if none of that could shut this place down, what could? The staff were all very aware of the asylum's dark past, but they believed they were past all that. I disagree: Gotham is changing, and the decisions made by the people who are supposed to protect us means Arkham will change along with the city, and there will be nothing but horrible consequences because of that, not to mention the numerous problems with Arkham that are already there...

And this change for the worse has already begun: Others like me have been fired or chose to quit, and patients are beginning to grow distrustful of their doctors if they haven't beforehand, and not without good reason, as lately there have been more incidents of therapists misdiagnosing their patients and prescribing the wrong medication. There's also that one unique patient, the Joker, that ghost who seems to have appeared out of nowhere; I've seen him attack his therapists, play sick mind games on other patients, and make threats towards the Administrator. I, for one, wasn't going to keep working for this barely functional institution any longer.

Yet, even when I made up my mind to resign, I could not bring myself to leave for good. Arkham is still a fascinating place, in spite of-or, perhaps, _because_ of it's history. Now that I am here and will most likely keep coming back, I will get to see what happens next, and perhaps even be a part of it. I know that my choices may look "insane," or even suicidal, but after everything I've seen and learned, I would much rather live among the patients than work in Arkham another day.


	2. Part 2: From the Beginning

_Part 2_

It has been two days since I became an Arkham patient. Just yesterday, while I was in the cafeteria, I managed to get a quick glimpse of the Joker past the barrier of guards that surrounded him as they led him down the main hall; however, I'm not terribly concerned with the Joker right now. Perhaps one day I'll get the opportunity to properly "introduce" myself and let him know that he was part of the reason why I stepped down from Arkham, but now is certainly not the time, not to mention that speaking to him could be quite dangerous. No, today I must focus on other things, as this date marks my first session.

I never directly interviewed patients myself during my somewhat brief tenure here, but my job was to watch the psychiatrists trying to work with their patients and listen to the various voice recordings that they would make, as well as reviewing their notes. Today will be very different, as I will get a unique opportunity to judge one of my former peers as a _patient_ instead of a psychologist. This day may prove to be very interesting, but that cynical part of me believes I will leave with the feeling that my time was wasted. How this session will turn out all depends on the therapist they assigned me.

The guards drop me off into a drafty, nearly empty room and most of them leave. There is only a table with two chairs, and when I see the man sitting at the far end with a voice recorder at his side and a notebook in his hand, my expectations for this session go out like a candle flame. My therapist is Dr. Bartholomew, a quiet and unremarkable man whom I only remember because the Administrator reprimanded me for criticizing him "too harshly," but for what, I honestly cannot recall. There is no other choice but to sit down and get this over with. It seems to me like he was only assigned to be my therapist because they didn't want anyone I actually respected to possibly _agree_ with my point of view.

As Bartholomew and I certainly both know who the other is, there is no need for introductions. I spent a great deal of time last night preparing my answers for whatever gets thrown my way after months of observing patterns in the therapists' questions for their patients. Dr. Bartholomew's eyes constantly shift around nervously even though I am trying to maintain eye contact with him- only a minute in and he's already barely holding himself together!

After a period of stammering and wiping the sweat off his brow, Bartholomew tries to reassure me that, with time, I could regain my footing and reenter society as if I did nothing wrong and all that, but he soon trails off, averting my gaze. He attempts to regain his composure by asking me in the most authoritative voice he can muster: _"What were your reasons for attacking Dr. Wolper?"_ So, it appears the staff weren't able to piece it together, even though I went to Jeremiah Arkham and a few of his supporters and, I tell Bartholomew, tried to appeal to them, tried to make them _understand_ that Wolper was just a fraud who sought attention by trying to convince everyone that the actions of his star patient, the Joker, could be defended by reason of insanity.

I recount to Bartholomew what I told the Administrator: Wolper had no credible evidence that the Joker was not responsible for his crimes due to persistent psychosis. I had said that, because the Joker is very aware of what he does and has taken advantage of the legal system so his punishment is less severe, he is competent to stand trial and receive a fair judgement; I also advised them to get rid of Dr. Wolper as soon as possible, so the establishment would not suffer embarrassment should someone accuse them of letting a remorseless killer run around with patients who are trying to reform and live normal lives in regular society. How did Arkham and his friends respond to this? They told me that _I_ had no evidence to prove that the Joker is not insane!

With those stinging words, I gave up then and there. It had never been more clear to me that the people who make up Arkham Asylum are stuck in some ridiculous fantasy, unwilling to face the truth. And it's not just _them_ who are under this delusion; so many others are living in a dream where, among other things, a clearly unstable man dressed as a bat is supposed to be our _protector_ that it's all but become a reality! Right after my argument with the Administrator, I packed my things and left, sure that he would have fired me anyway.

To make my resignation clear, I decided I would finally put the psychochemical I had been working on-and-off on for years to good use by seeking out Dr. Wolper... I end my ranting there, as I'm sure Bartholomew has heard what happened after that. The rage I felt those few days ago came back to me, and it was only until I stopped to catch my breath that I realized I was actually shouting. It's rare that I lose my temper in front of others like that, but my last days working in Arkham were some of the most emotionally draining ones in I've had in _years._ I look back at Bartholomew, who is just sitting there speechless, the blood drained from his face; it's difficult to read his body language to infer what must be going on in his mind right now, no doubt due to at least some of my words applying to him, too.

Bartholomew snaps out of his shock and, with a quivering hand, hurriedly jots down more notes. I wait for him to finish, wondering if he even listened to what I said. Of course, there were parts of the story that I felt were too complicated to discuss in this room, and I only told my therapist what he and the others would expect to hear from me, and that is how I intend to answer the question that I know is about to be asked.

Finally, Dr. Bartholomew finishes, and with a short breath he looks back up at me; he tells me, "Well, Crane, based on what you've...said, I have a feeling that your strong reaction to these frustrations in your life has a deeper meaning than you may realize, and I believe that by answering this question-heh," he pauses to smile awkwardly, "-that I'm sure you've heard before, we'll both learn more about yourself. We have plenty of time left, so... Can you start from the very beginning?" If he wants me to start from the very beginning, then that is where I'll start, but before I begin, I warn Bartholomew that I _don't_ believe we have plenty of time to get through everything in one session:

* * *

For the first twelve years of my life, I was raised solely by my father, an often struggling biochemist named Gerald Crane. As for my mother, to this day I hardly know anything about her other than the fact that she and my father bitterly divorced when I was two years old, and father almost never spoke of her to me. To this day I have no idea what my mother did that left me in the full custody of _him._ Before you ask, Bartholomew-no, I would not say that he was abusive in the classic sense of the word, but rather simply emotionally distant. He made sure that I was fed, that I did well in school, that no harm ever came to me; but, when it came to the emotional side of fatherhood, things like comforting me when I was sad or afraid or imparting important lessons that I would carry with me all my life, he was utterly clueless.

In hindsight, I believe my father's problem was that, although he did his best to support ourselves, some facets of raising a child were beyond his abilities. For whatever reason, he had difficulty expressing love or affection to anyone; even during my childhood, for as long as I can remember, I had the feeling that I didn't really _know_ my father, and I had a suspicion that he would often hide things from me. As it turned out, these suspicions eventually proved to be correct. You see, Gerald often struggled to find a job and keep it; he probably could have left Gotham early on, but he loved the house we lived in, he loved the city itself, and he once told me that he wanted me to grow up in a stable environment, so he was going to stay in Gotham no matter what. For what it's worth, we didn't live in a particularly crime-filled area.

So, Gerald had to work multiple jobs and work long hours to keep our standard of living. He only ever mentioned the vaguest of details about his work, and I never asked any questions, silently afraid that I would anger him if I pried. The last years I lived with him were the hardest: Gerald seemed constantly exhausted, he was more prone to bursts of anger, and -as a result- he became even more distant from me; whenever he wasn't away working, he would be shut up in his study with the door closed as a warning for me to keep away. But all the way to the end I kept telling myself to be grateful that father was working so hard for the both of us, and I hoped to one day be able to support us when I became old enough so he would never have to work again.

It wasn't meant to be: November 22, 1979, Gerald had gotten a few days off of work for Thanksgiving, and he told me he would spend as much time with me as he could to make up for all the days we wouldn't see each other. I waited all morning for him to leave his study, but he never did. It was past noon by the time I worked up the courage to go to the study and wake him up -I wasn't going to let him sleep through another holiday without seeing me. I remember cautiously opening the door and peeking into the room to see my father slumped over his desk before entering. It wasn't the first time I went into the study to wake him up.

Almost immediately, I knew something wasn't right... I couldn't hear any breathing, and he was completely motionless. When calling his name failed to get a response, I shook him. For a long time I stood over him, hoping that he would wake up. I was frozen with fear, and for whatever reason I wouldn't leave my father's side; Gerald, despite his distance, was the only one in my life I ever had. I eventually convinced myself to leave the study, and the last thing I did before calling 911 was hold his cold, lifeless hand.

The paramedics took his body away and, to my confusion, the police arrived as well. After looking through the house, they began to question me, agreeing that my father's heart gave out from over-working. It was then that I found out that Gerald had been a part of -well, let's just say- _illegal_ activities. Although I knew nothing about my father's work, I was taken to the police station anyway while it was to be decided where I would go next... In all honesty, I barely remember how I felt during that time; call me callous if you want, but I don't believe I ever shed a single tear for Gerald; I never have, and I never will. Instead, at the time, everything felt _numb,_ as if everything that was happening was just a dream.

At first, I believed I would be put in foster care, but the police managed to contact Gerald's mother, who was interested in me and stated that it was Gerald's wish to be buried in Arlen, Georgia where he grew up. While she travelled to Gotham to sort everything out, I was sent back to the house to pack what I could. Several days after Gerald's death, I finally met Marion Crane for the first time. The first time we met in that office, the two of us stared at each other without speaking a word, and from the second I looked into her eyes I saw her hatred for me.

* * *

Dr. Bartholomew timidly informs me, " _Ahem!_ We only have five minutes left..." Well, so far it seems like he's been listening to my droning, at least. I see him struggling to find the right words to say, before finally stating, "I didn't think you'd tell me so much," he then asks, "What made you decide to open up to _me_ of all people? I mean, this must be very personal for you..." I lean back and answer,

"Yes, it's all very sad what happened to my father, but in the context of what was to follow in my life, his death did not leave the greatest impact on me from an emotional standpoint." Bartholomew picks up his pencil again and dictates what I just said, and I add, "But, you told me to start from the very beginning, so maybe my telling you about my early years will help you come to some sort of conclusion."

"Uh, that's right," Bartholomew says, "I'm going to go over what you told me later today, and in our next session, we can pick up where we left off." He presses the stop button on his recorder and he signals the guards that it's time to take me back to my cell. I do not hesitate to leave the room and Dr. Bartholomew behind. During the walk back, I mentally review my therapist: He was too outwardly intimidated by me; I remember now that I criticized him for showing too much fear when interviewing patients, while he's improved just a bit, I still think he has too nervous of a disposition to properly handle directly working with patients. My train of thought is still running even when I am put back into my cell.

I wonder what conclusion Bartholomew will make based on what I told him? In the next session, I suppose I will tell him all about my pubescent years, and it won't be easy. Still, I don't mind telling Bartholomew my life story if that's where these sessions are going. I will make this a test for Dr. Bartholomew: Will he be the first to realize that I am not an insane man, or will he pull a diagnosis out of his ass to justify my being here, just like what nearly everyone else here would do?


End file.
